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'Boris' by Jennifer Gallagher

For the third time that week I washed blood off my hands and tried not to splash it over my shirt. For the third time that week I failed. Another shirt ruined. There was no point in even taking it to the dry cleaners, I tried it once and the stuff just doesn't come out. It leaves you with a orange hue to the fabric which to my mind always looks like you've tried to wash blood out of it and failed.

I signed heavily and toweled my hands dry. The bathroom had a dispenser with hand lotion in, such a nice touch, always made the bathroom feel a little more classy when they bothered to think about the little things like that. I smoothed the moisturiser into my hands, working it into all the crevices and lines, smoothing the annoying dry patches between my fingers. I cracked my knuckles and stretched out my back, twisting to the left and then the right. I rolled my shoulders and my neck creaked as I bent it from side to side.

Thoroughly flexible once again and feeling more positive about the day, I took my coat off the hanger on the back of the door and made my way out into the hallway. I could hear a whimpering coming from the bedroom, a quiet mewling sound, muffled but still distinctly coming from the bedroom. Curious, I made my way back to the room and looked in on the woman. She was still lying completely still, chest not doing any tell tale movement up and down. A small part of her brain fell down the wall and dribbled off the skirting board. They'd have to repaint for sure, that orange hue would be present on these magnolia walls and impossible to get out, same as my shirt.

I looked around and listened again for the sound, it was coming from the wardrobe over in the far left corner. Carefully opening the door I was greeted with the sight of a small furry animal, cowering between the shoes. Poor thing, the woman must have put him in there when she heard my car outside. I reached forwards and scooped the little fella into my arms, cradling him like a baby. He was just a puppy.

Leaving the house I closed the door quietly, there were no neighbours for miles to worry about the sound of a slamming door, but I didn't want to scare...Boris. I'd call the little guy Boris.

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words). So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

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